For someone who hasn’t lived in the US for eight years, I have certainly doggedly adhered to the tradition of Thanksgiving dinner - I’ve never missed one, although my last year in college I believe we dined on fish in a touristy restaurant in Montreal’s Old Port. But still! Special fish! In honour of Thanksgiving!
Anyway, it has become something of an annual tradition for me to think about hosting a dinner at my flat, and then to not a dinner at my flat; despite the fact that I do enjoy a good dinner party, I’ve just never managed to organise it. This year, I went to Chez S. Things started out a bit ropey - the oven was broken, so they had to cook in next door - but any doubts were soon ameliorated by wine, and by the time we started eating we hardly noticed that the turkey was a bit, ah, very moist.
‘DANGER MEAT,’ D exclaimed.
‘Oh, no,’ said S. ‘It’s just unusually juicy.’
Per tradition, Thanksgiving is a holiday to spent with one’s family, but for me the tradition’s slowly but surely changed. Now I associate Thanksgiving with getting together with a couple of American friends and lots of non-American friends - it’s always important to have a few pumpkin pie virgins, to watch their faces screw up either with pleasure or disgust - and celebrating shared adventures, which run the gamut from living abroad to roasting large fowls.
